


and dry it off with care

by chaotic_dumbass



Category: Campaign (Podcast), Illimat (Board Game)
Genre: Feelings, Gen, Necromancy, dref straight up ran away to be a pirate when he was 17 YEARS OLD, mentions of dref's shitty family, no beta we die like The Sovereign, the inherent intimacy and tenderness of doing someone else's hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29066151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaotic_dumbass/pseuds/chaotic_dumbass
Summary: Dref gets a haircut. Orimar requires upkeep. Communication is a work in progress.
Relationships: Orimar Vale & Dref Wormwood
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	and dry it off with care

**Author's Note:**

> my first skyjacks fic. shout-out to the uwuru for hyping me up. James tweeted that Dref's hair knowledge probably comes from doing Orimar's hair and I could not stop thinking about that. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not Black and I have never cared for Black hair. I've been thorough in research, but if I got anything wrong, please let me know in the comments.
> 
> Title is from Mitski's "I Will", because I couldn't help myself.

Dref feels the cold press of steel near the nape of his neck and tries desperately to be still. He knows that the knife is extremely sharp, and just because Orimar Vale hasn’t cut him yet doesn’t mean it won’t happen. Orimar Vale, as in the infamous Dread Pirate Captain Orimar Vale. Who is currently cutting away locks of his hair with far more caution than expected based on their, admittedly limited, interactions so far. 

Vale had watched, bemused, as Dref scrambled around his teacher’s office, gathering books and papers. The fear and adrenaline at what he was doing had churned his stomach and he’d struggled to decide what research he could leave behind and what was absolutely necessary. Then, he’d pushed Dref firmly onto the wooden stool that Dref had often used to access out of reach tomes or supplies. Dref had stammered incoherently and Vale put one of his extremely large hands on Dref’s shoulder. 

“You said you need the hair gone, yes? It’s an identifying feature?” he had asked, and though he was speaking casually, his voice had carried the importance of a proclamation. 

Dref had taken in the pale blond waves that fell just short of his shoulders in his teacher’s smudged mirror and nodded decisively. 

“Well, then I can at least make sure you don’t accidentally scalp yourself or slit your throat,” he had said, a playful smirk at his lips that wasn’t particularly reassuring. Even less reassuring was the long, glinting dagger he had drawn from his side. 

Vale had gathered Dref’s hair in a loose fist and held the knife up against it. He had raised his thick eyebrows and met Dref’s gaze in the mirror, clearly awaiting permission. Dref swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

“D- do it,” he had said, and Vale did, bringing his blade across in one smooth motion. 

Now Dref forces himself not to move around too much as he watches flaxen locks of hair float to the ground out of his peripheral vision. Vale has barely spoken for many minutes, apparently deep in concentration on his work. Dref looks at the mirror again and catches the intensity of the captain’s furrowed brow as he tries to angle the knife to shave off the small tufts of hair he wasn’t able to get with broader strokes. He is being remarkably gentle, and he hasn’t nicked Dref once even though he’s working with a dagger in a very poorly lit room at dusk. It is not an image that Dref would have ever associated with a corsair, especially this one. Maybe Orimar Vale missed his calling as a truly spectacular barber. 

He desperately wants to ask Vale why he’s taking the time to do this, why he’s allowing Dref to join his crew, whether or not he’ll actually be able to practice necromancy on the ship or if he’ll be confined to theoretical study and a dozen other logistical questions. But Dref is far too apprehensive, even without the intimidating figure that Vale cuts. He is well acquainted with his complete inability to read social dynamics and his, as Tiberius once put it, “remarkable aptness for being easily disliked”. He really does not want to offend Vale before he has even started the job. Or once he has started the job. He begins to wonder what will happen if he offends the captain, or upsets a high-ranking crew member, or fails to properly treat an ailment, or Sovereign forbid allows someone to _die_ under his care. Maybe he’ll be flogged, or keelhauled, or marooned, or floated, or- 

“Hey!” Vale’s voice cut through Dref’s panicked stream of thoughts and shallow inhales. “You still with me, boy? You need to focus and breathe” 

Dref nods and forces himself to take slow and intentional breaths, counting a few seconds before he allows himself to expel the air from his lungs. The sound of his pounding pulse fades away from his ears. 

“Are you alright?” Vale asks. “What brought that on?” 

Dref opens his mouth to respond that yes, he is alright, but what comes out is, “Will the r- rest of the crew..ahmm..like...me?” 

Orimar Vale laughs like cannon fire, that is to say, booming. His whole body shakes with it, head thrown back and shoulders spasming. 

“How old are you, Wormwood?” 

“S-se-seventeen,” Dref mutters, his face burning. 

“Of course,” Vale says, shaking his head slightly. His voice is amused, but not unkind. “The priorities of a seventeen-year-old. Some will, some won’t. It’s not as though you’ll ever be the youngest aboard, though I might advise that you age yourself up a bit, just to make sure all of the crew members will let you stitch them.” 

Dref’s face falls, and Orimar seems to catch it. 

“But being liked is not a requirement for a ship doctor,” he starts, his inflection clearly ramping up to a speech. “You just need the crew to trust that you’re skilled enough to keep them alive and keep them healthy. You need them to trust you enough to go under your scalpel.” 

Dref makes a hum, half acknowledgement and half apprehension. Vale’s hand motions are getting more impassioned as he continues and he’s still got the dagger in his grip. 

“It’s true with me, as well. Being liked is not a requirement for a captain. I just need them to trust that I know what is best for the crew and that I am always operating with that in the forefront. I need them to trust me enough to pick up a pistol.” 

A terrifying thought strikes Dref and he asks, “C-c-captain Vale, will ah, will I be..mmm required to p-pick up a pistol?” 

The corsair laughs deeply again, the sound reverberating through Dref’s bones. There is a soft clinking caused by the beads and jewelry braided into his hair hitting against each other. His swishing coat is a spot of blood red, sharply contrasting with the rest of the washed out little office. He is unlike any other person Dref has ever met, so vibrant and so alive that it’s difficult to look at him full on. 

“It is certainly a possibility,” Vale says once his amusement has died down. “Though not an imminent one. It won’t be part of your job. There are plenty of skyjacks more suited to taking on Red feathers. They can put the bullets into people and you’ll just focus on taking them out. Alright, it’s done.” 

It is a very short haircut. Shaved close to his skull, barely more than blond stubble. Dref almost doesn’t recognize himself without the silken fair hair framing his face, which is the entire point. He runs a hand over the fuzz on his scalp. It’s soft and velvety and fascinating. His ears are cold and he can feel every breeze, every shift in sensation so acutely. He shakes his head back and forth, marveling at the absence of the weight of his hair. 

There’s an absence of weight on his chest too, something he hadn’t even known he was carrying until it was lifted. Dref had already left behind his childhood home, shed his name like an old snake skin, and set aside taboos of both hallowed church and noble house. Ridding himself of his telltale Youngblood hair is small, but significant. The last pieces of Alistair Youngblood are scattered across the stone floor, and Dref is untethered, free of what has bound him for his entire life. It is exhilarating. It is terrifying. It is wonderful. He thinks he might be sick. 

It must show on his face, because Captain Vale smirks and says, “Oh, come now, it’s not _that_ bad of a haircut.” 

Dref begins to stammer out a response about how that isn’t it at all when he catches Vale’s expression and realizes that he’s joking. It’s not an irregular occurrence that Dref has trouble knowing when someone is making a joke, but it is unusual that he doesn’t feel like the joke is at his expense. He smiles sheepishly and reaches up to rub his hair again. 

“Thank you,” he says, meeting Vale’s eyes for a moment before quickly glancing away. “C-captain”. 

“You’re very welcome.” The corsair stands and brushes off his coat. “Shall we go then, Doctor?” 

There is playfulness, but no derision or irony in his tone. Dref nods, grabs his satchel and stands, his body humming with electric energy all the while. His heart swells at the title; he wants to rock back and forth, he wants to shake out his hands or run them through his hair again and again. He feels so light it’s as though he might float away, 

_Doctor._

...

Dref takes a portion of the thick hair at the nape of Orimar’s neck between his fingers and reaches to the thrumming energy of the threads that connect them to try and ensure that he remains still. The captain had always taken great pride in his appearance and allowing the condition of his locs to degrade would sound alarm bells of suspicion in anyone who had known the man for any length of time. Dref gently twists the strand of hair clockwise until it’s tight and then pins it up to move on. 

He reaches over to dip his fingers into the small jar of Orimar’s twisting cream and accidentally sticks his hand into the identical jar of oil for what must be the fourth time since he sat down. 

“Y-you really should label your hair products more clearly,” he tells the deceased captain as he begins to rub the moisturizing oil into the other man’s scalp. “Your whole office could stand to be...ahm..m-more effectively organized, really.” 

Orimar, unsurprisingly, makes no reply, just stares ahead with slightly unfocused eyes. 

Dref fumbles for the right jar and starts to distribute the cream throughout the section of hair with Orimar’s ostentatious comb. He twists the hair between his fingers until about a fourth of the way down the length of Orimar’s hair, and then rolls it between his palms for the rest. It’s relaxing, caring for Orimar. The simple and repetitive motions calm Dref’s frayed nerves, as much as they can ever be calmed. He feels that way about a lot of Orimar’s upkeep, it’s almost meditative. Sewing up his coat when it gets torn, writing inventory or instructions until the flourishing curve of the captain’s “r”s, the sharp swoop of his “t”s is exactly accurate. It’s peaceful, as long as Dref doesn’t start to think too long about what he’s doing or what will happen to him if he’s caught. 

Dref pins the loc that he has created into place with one of Orimar’s double-pronged hair clips. It’s made of silver, which is honestly beyond excess, and that’s what sets Orimar apart. Other captains might dress garishly to project an image of power and wealth to enemies and allies alike, but no one else would ever even see personal hair supplies. Captain Orimar Vale is not playing at royalty. He’s as close as you can get to the real thing in a world post Starfall. 

Dref tries to move a bit faster with the next few locs. They are having a team meeting in the captain’s office, planned ahead this time for Jonnit’s sake, and he wants to be finished by the time that Gable arrives. While Dref’s strengths don’t lie in reading social cues, even he can sense the way the tension thickens when Gable is in the room while he takes care of Orimar. Dref is fairly confident that doing the captain’s hair won’t bother them as much as the more...necromantic aspects of the upkeep, but still he’d rather not risk it. 

When he sews up holes in the captain’s skin, replaces decaying muscle or sinew while Gable is in the room it’s...odd. There’s a crackling sort of energy throughout the air and Dref’s skin prickles and crawls. His ears pop, as if there’s been a sudden change in altitude. And Gable stares at him. He can _feel_ Gable stare at him, can feel their eyes boring into him as he works. Being trapped under Gable’s gaze makes Dref’s heart pick up, his palms sweat and his breathing quicken. There is the overwhelming sensation that he is being seen, being known, being judged. It is terrifying. (It is exhilarating. It is wonderful). 

Dref stands back to admire his work and allows himself a pleased, private smile. He has a flash of a memory; Orimar laughing, larger than life, the beads and trinkets he adorned his hair with clinking together. Dref feels the sudden urge to dig through Orimar’s drawers and find them, just because Orimar would probably like it. It’s an irrational urge because Orimar looks fine, perfectly regal and intimidating without them. And, Dref realizes with a sharp pang, it’s not like anyone would hear them clink together. Orimar Vale will never laugh again. 

This thought makes Dref ache so acutely that he turns to put a hand on the table and steady himself. He yelps and nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand grab his wrist. Orimar is ignoring Dref’s attempts to break free of his unyielding grip and staring directly at him. 

“L-let me go, please,” Dref whimpers, fear curling in the pit of his stomach. Orimar’s expression remains unchanged and his grip does not loosen. 

Dref reaches in to manipulate the threads that connect him to the corpse and finds them already pulled taunt, the one between the captain’s arm and Dref’s chest so much so that it nearly hurts. Dref has just opened his mouth to ask Orimar what it is he wants when he feels it. An abrupt rush of emotions, unfamiliar and encompassing. Anger, rage like he has never felt, and betrayal, bone deep and unbelievably painful. A soft fondness that feels almost despite himself, and a muted but persistent longing. Grief that crushes his lungs and despair that seems to carve out a hole near his ribs. Dref feels tears sting his eyes involuntarily. 

“Orimar,” he starts to say, “...C-c-cah-ca” 

He chokes on the title of respect, the words dying on his lips. He can hear the bustling of the crew above them, but it’s distant and far off. He feels so heavy that he can hardly breathe. 

_Captain._


End file.
